more than your poor bones could ever take
by tocourtdisaster
Summary: His hand slips into hers and she has to wonder for what feels like the millionth time how he knows exactly what she needs. Post "The Girl in the Mask," pre "The Critic in the Cabernet."


**Disclaimer:**Everything you recognize in this story belongs to Hart Hanson and Fox. I'm not making a cent from writing/posting this story. It was written for purely entertainment purposes. Title is taken from a line from "Belated Promise Ring" by Iron & Wine.

**Notes: **The full title is "time may give you more than your poor bones could ever take," but that was too long for this site. This story takes place sometime after 4x23 (The Girl in the Mask), but before 4x25 (The Critic in the Cabernet).

* * *

She's on the platform helping Wendell with a particularly difficult cranial reconstruction when her cell phone starts to buzz in the pocket of her lab coat.

"Ange, could you?" she asks, tilting her head slightly and meeting the eyes of her friend who's waiting for the reconstructed skull so she can begin her own facial reconstruction.

"Yeah, no problem," Angela says, setting her clipboard on the edge of the exam table before reaching into Brennan's pocket. She shows Brennan the phone's display screen before hitting 'send' and wedging the phone between Brennan's ear and shoulder.

"Hi, Dad." Brennan shoots Angela a smile in lieu of verbal thanks. "Can you hold on a second?" She hands Wendell the two pieces of skull she's been holding and snaps off her gloves, dropping them in the waste receptacle near the edge of the platform. She grabs her phone and holds it away from her face as she turns to Wendell. "Just continue doing what you can, Mr. Bray. I should be back in a few minutes to help you finish."

Wendell nods, his eyes still focused on the bones in front of him. "Sure thing, Dr. Brennan," he says, reaching for the bottle of glue near the center of the table.

Sparing a quick smile for Angela, Brennan heads for the privacy of her office, her phone back at her ear. "Sorry about that, Dad," she says. "I was helping Mr. Bray with a cranial reconstruction."

The line is silent. Brennan glances at the phone's screen, making sure that the call is still connected. It is.

"Dad?"

She unbuttons her lab coat and sits behind her desk, reaching out with her free hand to grab a pen, which she then proceeds to tap against her blotter. Her father's continued silence is making her uneasy.

"Dad, what is it? What's wrong?"

She hears what sounds suspiciously like a stifled sob come through the phone, but that can't be right. She can't remember the last time her father cried; she suspects he's never actually let himself cry in front of his children.

"It's Hayley, baby."

Even though Brennan knows it's physically impossible, it feels like her heart stops, waiting for her father to finish.

"She died last night."

The phone slips from her grasp and she watches it fall to the floor, the battery bouncing off at an angle to where the phone comes to rest. She's not sure how long she sits there staring at the separate pieces of her phone before she feels a hand on her elbow. She turns her head and meets the worried brown eyes of her best friend.

"Sweetie, what happened?" Angela asks from her position crouched next to Brennan's chair. She vaguely remembers telling Wendell that she'd be right back; Angela must have come to find her when she didn't return.

Brennan opens her mouth, but she can't make the words come out. She can only mutely shake her head and close her mouth, irrationally hoping that by not saying anything, she can will her father's news to not be true.

"Is your dad okay?" Angela asks. Brennan nods.

"Russ?"

Nod.

"Amy?"

Nod.

"Amy's girls?"

Brennan shakes her head, her eyes starting to burn with the tears she refuses to shed.

"Oh my God," Angela breathes, her own eyes filling with tears. Brennan looks away before she herself starts to cry. "Bren, I'm so sorry."

Brennan nods and feels Angela press a kiss to her temple. Angela leaves and all Brennan can do is stare at the framed photo sitting near her computer monitor. It was taken last Christmas, her first family Christmas in over fifteen years where no one was in prison, and it's of Brennan and her nieces in front of the Christmas tree, the girls' arms wrapped around her neck. All three of them were laughing and smiling at a horrible joke of Max's when Amy snapped the picture.

She'd never imagined at the time that it would be the first and last Christmas that she would see Hayley so carefree and happy.

Letting out a shaky breath, Brennan leans forward and presses her hands to her forehead, her elbows against her blotter.

And she finally lets herself cry.

* * *

She's still in the same position sometime later, her eyes dry and scratchy, when she feels his hand against the back of her neck. His thumb brushes gently against the hair at the nape of her neck, rubbing some of it loose from the bun she'd pulled it into that morning. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes her want to cry again.

"Temperance." His voice is quiet, soothing.

"Angela called you?" she asks, shifting backwards slightly, increasing the pressure of his hand against her neck.

Booth crouches down next to her, his hand slipping from her neck to her shoulder, leaving a trail of warmth against her skin. "Yeah. She's worried about you." He's silent for a moment and she knows that he wants her to look up, to meet his eyes. She keeps her head in her hands. "I am, too."

Brennan finally turns her head to meet Booth's eyes, her forehead still pressed against her palms. And even though she's never been very good at reading body language and subtle emotional indicators, she can very clearly see his concern for her in his eyes.

"Angela talked to Cam, squared away your bereavement leave," he tells her quietly. "Cam said to take as much time as you need."

Brennan nods as best she can.

"And I spoke with Cullen," Booth continues. "He agreed to give me some emergency leave. If we leave here now, we can stop by both our places to pack a bag and be at your brother's by dinner time."

"You can't come with me, Booth," Brennan says and feels her stomach clench at the crestfallen look on Booth's face. "We're in the middle of an investigation. It'll be hard enough for this case to be solved in a timely manner with just me gone."

Booth's expression clears and Brennan knows she's said the right thing. "Don't worry about it, Bones," he tells her, the hand that's not on her shoulder reaching out to grasp her wrist gently. "Perotta's on her way over here to get briefed on the case. She's worked with the team before, so you don't have to worry about that. And our team is good. They'll do their jobs and catch this guy and I don't want you thinking about the case anymore, alright?"

"Alright," she agrees, the corners of her mouth tipping up into a small smile almost against her will.

"Alright," Booth says again with his own small smile. Pushing himself up from his crouch, he tugs on Brennan's wrists until she, too, is standing. He helps her out of her lab coat and into her blazer and Brennan can't bring herself to object to his chivalrous tendencies. For once, it feels nice to be taken care of.

Booth's hand is against her back, ready to guide her from her office. Brennan is overwhelmed by it all and before she can talk herself out of it, she turns and wraps her arms around Booth's middle, underneath his jacket, her hands clenching at the soft cotton of his button-down shirt. Booth's arms are almost immediately around her and instead of feeling smothered, Brennan feels safe. It's irrational, but it's real.

"Thank you, Booth." Her words are muffled against his chest. She is comforted by the steady beat of his heart against her ear.

"You're welcome, Temperance."

* * *

It's well after nine o'clock by the time they check into a hotel. Brennan stands to the side while Booth checks them in, content for once to let the care of the details fall to someone else.

Dinner at Russ and Amy's had been awkward. Aside from the clink of silverware and the occasional sniffle, the dining room was silent. For all that Brennan worked with the dead and dealt with those left behind, she didn't know how to react when she was one of those left behind, when it was her brother who was the grieving father.

Brennan is brought back to the present by Booth's hand on her back. She lets him guide her to the elevator and then to her room.

"There are two beds," she says as she steps through the doorway, glancing over her shoulder at her partner. It's an obvious observation, but there's a question implied in her words as well.

Booth closes the door behind himself and then steps around Brennan to set his bag on the bed farthest from the door. He reaches out and takes her bag from her hands, setting it on the nearer bed before he answers her, his eyes locked with hers. "You don't need to be alone right now."

For the second time in just a few short hours, Brennan finds herself in Booth's arms. She presses her face to his shoulder and feels his shirt growing damp with the tears she's been holding back ever since leaving the Jeffersonian. One of Booth's hands is in her hair, holding her to him, the other rubbing circles against her back.

Brennan isn't sure how long they stay like that, but eventually, her eyelids start to droop with exhaustion. Booth's hand has stilled against her lower back, his fingers spread against the waistband of her pants, his cheek resting on her hair.

"Feeling any better?" Booth's voice is quiet and Brennan feels his question reverberating through his chest as much as she hears it. She just nods, not trusting her voice.

Booth is the first to pull away, but he doesn't do so completely. He brings his hands to her face and then his lips to her forehead and Brennan feels tears spring to her eyes again. She wishes she would just stop crying already. Booth brings his forehead to rest where his lips just were and Brennan's eyes close of their own volition.

"You're exhausted," Booth says and Brennan can't argue because she knows he's right. "You can have the bathroom first."

* * *

Hours later, Brennan is still awake. The sheets are scratchy, the blankets not near warm enough. There's a street light right outside the window, shining through the crack in the blinds and into her eyes if she moves her head the wrong way.

She can't seem to stop thinking about how old her brother looked at dinner, how Amy seemed to have shrunk since she'd seen her last. Brennan hadn't even seen Emma; the girl hadn't left her room since that morning when she'd been told about her sister.

Booth's breathing is even and deep and just a few feet away and Brennan is irrationally jealous of his ability to sleep right now. She rolls onto her side, tucking her knees up to her chest and looks at Booth. He, too, is on his side, one arm outstretched, the other on his pillow near his face. He looks younger in sleep, but even in the dark, Brennan can make out the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"Quit staring, Bones."

His voice, loud in the silence of the room, startles her and she jerks back a little in surprise.

"I thought you were asleep," she tells him, knowing even as she speaks that it's a lame attempt to deflect him.

"I was."

"Then how did you know I was staring?"

"Sniper, Bones," he says, finally opening his eyes and meeting hers. "Why weren't you sleeping?"

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head against her pillow. "I just-- I can't."

"Come here," he says, flipping back his blankets. Brennan doesn't give herself time to think about her actions or their consequences; she just slips out of her bed and into Booth's, laying on her side, sharing his pillow, their faces only inches apart. Booth throws the blankets over her, his arm around her waist, hand resting on her hip. His thumb brushes back and forth, back and forth against her bare skin where her shirt's ridden up.

This should be awkward, she thinks. Yes, Booth is a very tactile person and touches her often, but his touches have never been this intimate. An arm around her shoulders, hand against her back, very rarely a finger under her chin, but never his hand over her bare hip. They've shared a bed a handful of times before for a case, but never have they lain together like this. This should be awkward.

Brennan didn't expect this, sharing a bed with Booth, to be comfortable, but it is. They're close enough that she's warmed by his body heat, but their only contact is his hand against her hip and now her hands against his chest as her fingers trace over the lettering on his tee-shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, his breath washing over her cheeks. His hand ghosts up her side, her shoulder, her neck, finally coming to rest against the side of her head, his long fingers in her hair.

She shakes her head as her fingers still against his chest.

"Okay."

Brennan knows this conversation isn't over; Booth has only postponed it for a time when they're both less tired and when he can give more concentration to weaseling an answer out of her. She's grateful for the reprieve.

Booth's hand is on the move again, this time coming to rest flat against her back and then he's rolling, pulling her with him so that when he comes to rest on his back, she's half on top of him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. His other arm comes around her shoulders, holding her in place.

She curls her fingers into his tee-shirt over his heart and can't help but smile, just a little, when she feels his lips against the crown of her head.

"Go to sleep, Bones," he tells her and she's finally able to drift off to the sound of his even breathing and the feeling of his thumb rubbing circles against her back.

* * *

Brennan has attended many funerals since the beginning of her partnership with Booth, attended many before she met Booth, but the funeral of her almost-niece is the most painful she's ever been to. Even when she believed that they were burying Booth, her grief hadn't been this raw. She had grieved deeply for her partner, her friend, but at least she was left with the knowledge that while he'd died far too soon, he had accomplished much in his life and had died for a purpose, even if she would have gladly taken that bullet herself.

It's different with Hayley. She was just a child, a sick little girl who never got to experience some of life's greatest joys. She never got to fall in or out of love, never learned to drive, never even made it out of elementary school.

Hayley's casket is white. White for purity, for innocence. There's a spray of yellow tulips atop the closed lid of the casket. The flowers seem too bright, too cheerful for a funeral.

A minister stands at the head of the casket, speaking of the love of God and eternal peace and happiness. Brennan wants to scream, to stop him from saying these things. If there was such a thing as a kind and loving God, then why is Hayley dead? For that matter, why was she sick to begin with? What kind of benevolent being could do such a thing to such a sweet little girl?

Looking to her left, she sees that her brother is weeping unabashedly, his arms around Amy, Emma sandwiched between them, the girl's face buried in her mother side. Brennan's never seen her brother look so broken.

Max is standing just beyond Russ, his eyes red, but dry. It's as close to tears as Brennan's ever seen her father; she decides that yesterday doesn't count because, first of all, she hadn't actually seen him cry and secondly, she's not even sure he was really crying.

On the other side of the casket are Amy's sister, Rachel, and her husband, who Brennan's never met before, but who she knows works in construction.

The only people anywhere near the funeral are the cemetery workers, who are a tactful distance away, waiting for the mourners to leave so they can do their job, put Hayley's casket in the ground, and then go home.

The minister finishes his speech and lays a hand on Amy and Russ's shoulders before walking away slowly towards his car. Brennan wonders if the man has a family waiting at home for him and how he will explain to them that he performed a funeral for a little girl today.

Rachel and her husband both lay their hands against the head of the coffin before they, too, leave. Max is next, managing to pry Emma away from her mother to take with him. Brennan knows that he'll take the girl back home and try to get her to eat something before he lets her hide out in her bedroom again.

Brennan feels Booth step close behind her, his breath a whisper in her ear. She wants to reach out and take his hand, take some kind of comfort from the contact, but in the light of day, she's just not brave enough to reach for him.

"Do you want to say goodbye?" he asks. She wants to tell him, yet again, that she doesn't believe in God or heaven or that Hayley still retains some kind of sentience. But then she remembers what he's taught her, that funerals and goodbyes are for the living, not the dead.

The casket is cool underneath her palm. The aroma of tulips is almost overwhelming. She doesn't know what to say. She hardly knew her niece.

"I wish--" she starts to say, but stops herself because she's not sure what she wishes. That Hayley had never been sick, that she's had more time, that she hadn't died; part of Brennan also wishes that she'd met Hayley because then she wouldn't be in this kind of pain.

But then she remembers Detective Nakamura. His pain at losing his sister was made bearable by the fact that he got to love her. And even though Brennan never spent much time with Hayley, she still loved—loves—the girl.

"I'll miss you," she eventually whispers, her hand slipping from the casket as she turns to approach her brother and his almost-wife. She gives them each a kiss on the cheek before rejoining Booth.

His hand slips into hers and she has to wonder for what feels like the millionth time how he knows exactly what she needs. He squeezes her hand gently before letting go; Brennan feels the loss keenly for only a moment before Booth's arm is around her shoulders, tucking her into his side.

Her own arm finds its way around his waist. To help her keep her balance, she tells herself, although she can't deny that she's wondered before how it would feel to stand with Booth like this.

"You ready to go, Bones?" he asks. Brennan nods and doesn't resist when the arm around her shoulders tugs her in the direction of their car.

* * *

It's dark when Brennan finally opens the door to her apartment, Booth following behind her with the box of take-out. By the time they'd gotten back to D.C., they'd both decided that it was too late and their day too long to be bothered cooking anything.

Booth takes the food to the kitchen while Brennan heads for her bedroom, shedding her jacket along the way. Her shoes end up against her dresser and she strips out of her slacks and blouse, leaving them where they fall on the floor. She slips into her oldest, most comfortable pair of yoga pants and after a bit of deliberation, a tee shirt of Booth's that had somehow ended up in her luggage on their last out of town case that she's keeps meaning to return.

When she returns to the living room, she notices that Booth's shed his own jacket and tie, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The glance he throws her way lingers for longer than she thinks it should and she hopes he's not going to comment on her choice of attire.

He doesn't. "C'mon, Bones, I'm starving," he says instead, patting the couch cushion next to him.

Dinner is a silent affair. Every so often, Booth nudges her knee with his, urging her to quit playing with her food and eat it. She's been noticing more and more lately how much he does things like this, taking care of her, and Brennan finds that part of her likes it. She's never liked being taken care of before, but when it's Booth who's doing it, she's finds that she's okay with it.

She shouldn't be okay with it, and that's what bothers her the most. She's independent; she's intelligent. She's not a woman who needs taken care of. She's never allowed it before, so why is she allowing it now?

"What's going on in the beautiful brain of yours, Bones?"

"Why did you say it like that?" she asks. She knows her tone is too sharp, but she can't help herself. "Why did you say beautiful brain? You could have just said brain or head and your point would have come across just as clearly. Why do you always say things like that?"

She knows she's coming close to hysterical, but she can't stop. She can't slow down her breathing and she can't bring herself to apologize for her tone or her words.

"I say it like that, Temperance," Booth says and Brennan can't help but pay closer attention at his use of her first name, "because it's true. You are a beautiful woman, all of you, and that includes your brain."

And suddenly Brennan is on her feet, pacing back and forth in the space between her living room and kitchen. "I can't do this, Booth," she says, her hands pinwheeling in front of her face. She's never been big on gesturing, but it's helping to relieve some of her pent-up energy, so she doesn't try to hold back. "There's something going on and it's been going on for a while and I can't do it. I can't be the person who lets you take care of her or who takes that kind of comment in stride because that's not who I am, Booth."

She stops her pacing, her back to the living room, her eyes drawn to the spot where she used to keep the medieval dagger that was used to kill Deputy Directory Kirby. She misses it, but wouldn't take it back now, even if it was returned to her from the FBI evidence locker.

Booth's hands on her shoulders startle her; she hadn't even realized he'd risen from the couch until he touched her.

"I'm not asking you to change, Temperance." His voice is low and Brennan feels herself relaxing as Booth's thumbs start to rub against the tension in her shoulders. Her chin drops towards her chest, exposing the back of her neck to Booth's skillful hands. "I'm sorry if you think that. I was just trying to let you know how I see you."

After a long moment of silence, she sighs. "No, I'm sorry, Booth, for blowing up at you like that," she says. "It was unfair of me."

"It's okay."

"No, Booth, it's not," Brennan exclaims, whirling around to face him, knocking his hands from her shoulders in the process. "You deserve better than for me to yell at you when all you're trying to do is pay me a compliment." She's mortified to feel tears welling up in her eyes, obscuring her vision, turning Booth into a blurry blob of color. "You deserve better than me."

When Booth's arms come around her, she all but collapses, letting him support her entirely. She's so sick and tired of crying, of turning into a blubbering mess at the slightest provocation. Booth practically drags her to her bedroom and has her lying down and under the blankets almost before she has time to protest. He sits down next to her, his hip pressing against her side.

"You need to rest, Temperance," he tells her. "You're strung out and exhausted and grieving. Everything will be clearer after a good night's sleep, okay? I'm going to go clean up dinner, but then I'll be right back. You just stay here, okay?"

Brennan can only nod and watch as Booth leaves the room. She can hear him pottering around in the kitchen, the clink of silverware, the rushing of water. She turns onto her side, her arms curling around one of her pillows. She presses her face into the soft cotton of the pillowcase, letting it soak up the tears she can't seem to stop shedding.

She's drifting in that place between asleep and awake when she hears his footsteps on the hardwood of the hall. He slows as he enters the bedroom. All is silent for a moment, followed by the _thunk_, _thunk_ of Booth's shoes hitting the floor. There's a metallic jangle as his belt is discarded.

Brennan is expecting it when Booth slides into bed behind her, but she's not expecting the skin-to-skin contact; apparently Booth discarded his shirt and is left in only his undershirt, his bare arm against hers. He scoots closer until there's hardly any space between them, her back to his chest, his knees tucked behind hers, his arm around her waist with his hand pressed against her stomach. She lays her hand over his, her fingers finding their way into the spaces between his.

She can feel his breath against the back of her neck, the pulse in his wrist jumping against her stomach. She can feel her own pulse beating out a counterpoint.

"Booth, are we—"

"Shh, Temperance." He presses a kiss to the back of her neck. She can't imagine she's gone this long without feeling this before. "We're okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She knows that they'll have to deal with this in the morning, but for now, she's comfortable and willing—more than willing—to fall asleep in Booth's arms. So she stops fighting it and just lets herself go and gets the best night sleep she can ever remember having.

* * *

**.end.**


End file.
